


Call Me? Maybe.

by lousy_science



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Gen, Movie Reference, Not Beta Read, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 21:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Sonny goes to seeCall Me By Your Namebased on Barba's not-entirely-in-good-faith recommendation.





	Call Me? Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Inevitably, contains _Call Me By Your Name_ spoilers, plus a wanton disregard for actual movie release dates.

“ _Black Panther_ isn’t out for a week, and I’ve seen _The Shape of Water_ twice,” Sonny leaned back in his chair so far that he seemed to be mocking the laws of gravity. He was thumbing through movie listings on his phone as Rollins packed up her desk.

“What about that one with the fish guy where some chick falls in love with him?” she said, zipping up her bag.

“That’s _The Shape of Water_.” 

“Oh. Do they do it?”

“What?”

“The fish guy and the girl, do they show them getting it on?”

“You have no respect for cinema, you know that, Amanda? I don’t spill spoilers. Some things are sacred.”

“Wait,” Fin was walking past and had heard enough to stop mid-stride. “Fish humping is sacred? What did they teach you in Catholic school?”

Sonny smirked. “The eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not spoil movies.”

Fin shook his head as Sonny held his phone up. 

“Maybe _Den of Thieves_? It’s got 50 Cent in it.”

Fin snorted and walked out. 

Barba had been listening from the door of Liv’s office. It was Tuesday night, and he would usually have work to get back to, but a trial had been deferred and another case had been resolved far quicker than anyone had anticipated. That was why Carisi was looking for something to do, they all had holes in their schedule. Only Sonny had to make a production out of just going to the movies. 

He decided that he wasn’t above plucking low-hanging fruit. “I saw a good movie the other week, Carisi.”

Sonny perked up, his whole body pivoting towards Rafael’s voice. “What was that, Counsellor?”

Rafael started strolling out slowly, wrapping his scarf around his neck in soft loops. “An Italian film, _Call Me By Your Name_. You’ve heard of it?”

This was it, the moment Sonny laughed and made a joke, and Rafael joked back as he left. But instead Sonny kept the studious look on his face. “Think I’ve heard of it - got some Oscar hype, right? Man,” he looked abashed, “I didn’t even know it was Italian.”

“Oh yeah. But the dialogue is mostly English. It’s set in the North, the Lombardy area I believe. Which looks,” he made a sweeping gesture with his hands, “Gorgeous. Made me want to visit again. Plus the food scenes, _ah_!”

He was walking backwards now, watching Sonny’s reaction. He was looking chipper.

“Is it like _The Godfather_?”

Rafael pursed his lips. “Noooo. It’s much more sedate than that. No mob. More of a slice of life. It’s...sweet.”

“That sounds great! You know, more Italian movies should be like that, it’s not all mafioso after all. And it looks like it’s on around the corner in half an hour. Thanks,”

“No problem, Carisi. Enjoy.”

Rafael Barba walked out of there with the satisfaction of a man who’s done a good day’s work and tricked a colleague into seeing a gay love story. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Rafael was walking past the hip new boutique cinema when he realised that Sonny Carisi was probably inside, holding a giant box of Milk Duds while in blissful ignorance of the homosexual agenda about to be inflicted upon his eyes. 

Since this place had opened last year he’d been half-heartedly planning to go. This wasn’t a multi-ultra-plex where you queued up to eat stale popcorn and watch your Star Wars, it was an arthouse outfit, the kind of joint that served you cocktails and tapas options with your movie. Tonight seemed like as good a night as any to give them his patronage, even if he’d already seen the film currently showing. It was a damn good movie. He could do with a dose of Italian sunshine. Plus Armie Hammer was so beautiful that it was nearly unreal. 

It wasn’t that he had meant to follow Sonny. His feet just walked in, and when he saw the range of whiskey bottles on the bar’s top shelf, the soundness of the idea was clear. The bartender was a cutie with an afro mohawk and a bowtie, and she made him his drink and slid the menu over to him with his movie ticket. Ordering some ‘nduja bruschetta (“We’ll bring it over to your seat, sir.”) he went to take his place in the back row. 

Spotting Carisi wasn’t hard. The screen was half-full with about twenty seats. Sonny was sat right in the middle, and he appeared to be enjoying both the recliner function and a beer. The trailer playing was for some incredibly pretentious Danish movie, but the line of Sonny’s shoulders wasn’t tight with annoyance or hunched in incredulity. 

Rafael had no reason to feel bad about this. He’d recommended a fine movie to a colleague, who was now enjoying a luxury seat with decent legroom and, Rafael was willing to bet, some excellent snack options. Sure, it was odd that he was watching Sonny as much as the screen, now playing the lush opening credits, but it was just friendly interest. Anthropology, kinda. 

There was value in rewatching, even just a week after first seeing it. The movie seemed more tender and more bittersweet, the love story that much more poignant, Armie Hammer even more stunning. Rafael was better prepared for the shirtlessness and the chiaroscuro nudity. Perhaps it was his age, but Rafael felt closest to the professor character, a man whose knowledge of the world, and his son’s love affair, brought both pain and joy. His speech, when it came, floored Rafael all over again.

Moving his lips to mouth along with the words, “But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste!” he snuck a look over at Sonny. 

He was slouched forward, and whether he was watching intently or scrounging for a fallen Dorito, Rafael couldn’t tell. He drifted back to the world of the movie, smiling at the eighties fashion in the last scene. Rafael may’ve worn that same sweater as a kid, except it would’ve been a knockoff, not Elio’s designer original. The kid was crying now, and Rafael wondered if this was what knowing how good you had it looked like. 

The credits rolled on. People began to get up and leave. They were mostly in couples, leaning into each other a little closer, whispering warm words. Rafael glanced at each of them on their way past him to the door, the satisfied smiles on their faces as they talked about Italian holidays, how much Timothée deserved the Academy Award, and which subway line they were going to get home. 

Leaning forward, he brushed bruschetta crumbs from his shirt, and noticed that it was only him and Sonny left in the theatre. Leaving now would be sneaky - besides they’d probably see each other in the lobby, where Rafael was thinking of getting another cocktail. Besides, he was curious what Sonny made of the movie, with no space aliens or superheroes or car chases. He could make the detective buy him a drink and then lecture him about appreciating more subtle artforms. 

Sonny was still bent forward, the long curve of his neck tilted toward the ceiling. His shoulders heaved in a sudden jolt, and Rafael leapt to his feet, thinking he was choking. 

But then Sonny stood up and turned away from the screen. The faint light of the credits picked out the features of his face, twisted and slumped in sorrow. Tear trails were fresh on his cheeks, and he swiped the back of his hand roughly across them.

Rafael just stared. It took another second, but as Sonny crab-walked out from his aisle he noticed that someone else was still in the theatre. 

His mouth fell open in a slack _o_ of shock, then clamped shut, his eyes blinking furiously and his hand back up to his cheeks, wiping away the moisture. 

“Sonny,” Rafael fumbled through his pockets until he found his handkerchief, which he pushed forward insistently. “Here,”

Taking the handkerchief reluctantly, Sonny swabbed at his face. His eyes were still puffy.

Rafael tried. “I just came in on an impulse. I didn’t think - ”

Sonny shook his head, and Rafael shut up. He sat back in his chair, giving Sonny all the room he needed to walk out. 

Instead Sonny sat down next to him. His breathing was still a little ragged and uneven, the way it is after weeping. Their jobs exposed them to a lot of weeping, but of third parties. It was such an intimate act to witness in a colleague. Lifting his hand up slowly, so it was in Sonny’s line of vision, Rafael tentatively set it on top of Sonny’s forearm. He wasn’t shaken off, so he squeezed gently. Sonny exhaled in a shaky gust, flipping his arm over and taking Rafael’s hand in his. 

They sat like that for a while. Rafael couldn’t remember the last time he’d held someone’s hand; it would have been a victim, probably, or during one of those interminable dances at a charity ball. With their palms pressed together he could feel gun calluses on the pads of his index finger, the silkiness between his fingers, the pulse of his heart. 

“Do you think,” Sonny said, “he was right?”

“Elio? Or Oliver?”

Shaking his head, Sonny looked over to him. “The father. About love. About how much it hurts. And not getting,” he swallowed, “toughened up to it. Not wasting your pain by getting distance from it.”

“That’s,” Rafael paused, “a very romantic way of looking at the world. Not that it’s wrong. It’s not wrong for artists, maybe most people. Some of us, we see heartbreak everyday. But I think people like me, we get a little too distant. It’s not something I like to think about much.”

He smiled, and nudged Sonny with his elbow. “I prefer the law. I can always find a case study to back me up there.”

Sonny still looked grave. “But what about falling in love, if falling in love means losing a lot?”

“Like what?” 

“My family. My church - _you_ know, you’re Catholic. My job, God, I keep hearing that I have to feel _less_ at work, not more. If I was a mess, like my sisters, every breakup with them is a whole drama with the text messages, the Ben & Jerry’s, listening to Adele songs. I have too much to get done, I can’t just fall apart over someone, without knowing,”

Rafael spoke very quietly, “Nothing is certain, Carisi. You know that. Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. And,” 

He held the hand in his firmly, turning his body around to lean in over the wide arm rest. “Do you really think your family would reject you? God? That’s not what God is about, not your God. There’s plenty of churches in the world where you’d be welcomed.”

Sonny huffed. “There’s this Uncle of ours, he moved out to San Francisco years ago when I was a kid. No one talks to him, it’s like he’s not even part of the family any more.”

“Goddamnit, Sonny, then you call him up and see how he’s doing. You make your family talk about him. I know enough about you to know that you’re no coward.”

That got him a small smile. A thumb circled the back of Rafael’s hand. Rafael continued, “And it’s not like you have to eat ice cream and listen to Adele after you break up with someone. I find rum and Beethoven are more efficient.”

Sonny laid his head on Rafael’s shoulder. It must’ve been murder on his neck, but Rafael brought his other hand up to stroke his nape, feeling how the gelled-back strands were beginning to unwind. 

“When did you last drink rum and listen to Beethoven?”

The credits had ended and the house lights were coming on. Soon an usher would show up with a garbage bag and get an eyeful of two men folded together in the back row. Rafael grazed his lips against Sonny’s hairline, just a soft touch, nothing indecent to scandalize a cinema worker. 

“It’s been a while. Too long. It’s time someone tried to make me.”


End file.
